


Pneumothorax

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: M/M, so I guess kind of a warning for gore?, weird one shot, with medical metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s breathing with a wet plastic bag, lungs collapsed and stuck together, flimsy layers soldered together through stress. Rhys cries, thick gurgling in his bruised throat, soaked in the blood pumping through his tightened veins, sensors screaming sympathetic shock to his stupid skull—"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pneumothorax

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I've been in deep in my Anatomy & Physiology class lately?

Rhys has been hit enough times to know what it feels like, and sometimes being with Jack feels like a punch.

Pinned to the bed, Rhys can feel himself breaking, bleeding, dripping out his mouth and pores and between his legs—

He can barely breathe, stifled by the pressure of Jack’s body above him, crushing terror lancing through his chest as his vision fogs, oxygen cruelly sucked from his throat by Jack’s laughing, smoke-kissed pants—

Fucking him out of stasis, frantic blood throbbing with the acidic prick of Jack’s teeth into his chest, working out the circulation like knots between fangs and fingers—

Shivering sacs deep inside him, some filling slowly, some stretched and ready to burst, tearing at the seams with the horrible movement of each breath—

His mouth fills with fluid, thick and ionic, choking him like the hands on his chest, his stomach, his hips, pressed against his throat—

Arms crushing his breath like broken ribs, his exhales staccato and sharp, pinpricks in the gooseflesh of his skin, plunging blood and sweat and saliva and sweet, sweet spunk—

Alveoli popping like bubblewrap under Jack’s pressing palms, fingertips drawing scars and plans on his very viscera, finger-painting the pleural—

Slick, sweet serous membranes skidding and sliding against each other, squeezing around the thick of Jack’s dick as dizzying warmth oozes all throughout his seizing body—

He’s breathing with a wet plastic bag, lungs collapsed and stuck together, flimsy layers soldered together through stress. Rhys cries, thick gurgling in his bruised throat, soaked in the blood pumping through his tightened veins, sensors screaming sympathetic shock to his stupid skull—

Finally, his orgasm rattles in his throat, body cracking on the bed against the throttle of Jack’s body, the vessels inside him swelling and bursting, flooding his stricken body with sicker heat that spills up through his mouth and drools out onto his cheek. The little pleasure settles warm, pooling in the thick of his chest, limbs numb and shuddering and solid like stone against the mattress. 

The bedsheets crinkle at his weight, creasing into goldenrod flowers littered around his form.

Palliative affections press to his skin as Rhys lays in state, settled in hospice. 

Jack kisses his lips, his glassy, dazed eyes that close at barest touch and folds Rhys’s hands over his chest, pulling the sheets up over his head. 

 

 


End file.
